


walk softly (and carry a big lance)

by badAquatic



Series: Trailerstuck [81]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Canon-Typical Violence, Illustrated, Murder, Original Character(s), Original Troll Characters, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So what if your neighborhood's been wrecked by a violent gang confrontation? You made it out alive. You have no reason to feel the fear anymore during the police crackdown. "Today is going to be a great day," you resolve during breakfast. </p><p>You're Kankri and this was your mindset before you witnessed a brutal murder. </p><p>Takes place during "lives built on sand".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. an unusual confrontation

**== >Be Kankri way back in November of last year**

 

You wake up that Friday morning to kiss your matesprit and survey your neighborhood. Most of the garbage has been removed, easing the stench. The power has returned and the trailer is finally being repaired. The mud remains but that’s a constant problem in New Jack. The news reporters refuse to leave but you’ve made your peace with that; no matter how badly you want to speak with them but can’t risk jail time. Things could be worse. _Far_ worse.

 _Today is going to be a great day,_ you resolve during breakfast.

You don’t have to return to work until next Monday so you enjoy your last weekday of freedom. You visit Terezi’s parents with the twins, talking of future plans and if you’re going to add a second story to your trailer. You visit Kurloz so you can compare him to a mangy poodle given the near-tangled state of his hair. That evening Terezi invites Karkat for dinner. Karkat is quiet; he eats and talks pale with Terezi in the bedroom. You watch the evening news but there’s nothing interesting.

You decide, for the first time in years, to take an evening stroll through your neighborhood. With the cops everywhere, no one is going to risk mugging you. You ignore the mosquitoes and observe the changes in your neighborhood.

The Lalonde trailer is the same but the lot where the Egbert trailer had been was marked off with yellow police tape. A police car sits next to the dredging equipment. Huge garbage trucks are parked near Blank Park to remove the garbage that remains. You round the corner to the Nitram trailer and see neither Tavros nor Rufioh are present, but Petros is. He’s sitting on the front porch.

You question what the hell is going on with him. He’s supposedly O.G. but he hasn’t aged since his ‘disappearance’. What could he be: a clone? No, that’s too outlandish. And why has he returned after the Cherubs attempted to murder you all? Could he be working for them or another gang? Whatever is going on, you’re not going to learn by just watching him. You’ve refrained from your suspicions because you were in the company of others, but right now it’s just him and you.

When you get within a foot of Petros, he looks at you—alert but calm, like a lioness that sees no point in hunting small prey.

“Petros Nitram,” you say, “I have some questions for you.”

Petros looks away, but then looks back to you. “Ask away, Kankri.”

“Are you even who you _say_ you are?” you ask.

“Even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t tell you, so the point of that question is moot.” Petros answers, calmly.

“It doesn’t make sense,” you say, stepping onto the porch. You’re a half-foot from him. “You leave for twenty something years and come back young while everyone else is old and grey. Why are you here?”

“Why am I here…” Petros ponders.

“Are you a spy?” you ask, “Do you work for the Cherubs?”

“Espionage…would not be beneficial.” Petros says after thirty seconds of pondering, “Being a spy would mean being under someone else’s command and as for the Cherubs, I would have nothing to do with them. Their disgusting motives and their ways of attaining money…I have no need of it.”

“What about the Trussians?” The Trussians kept plenty of bulky brownbloods for their hired muscle, “Are you here to make sure Karkat doesn’t back out?”

“Karkat.” Petros pauses, considers, and then asks, “What does he have to do with those… _people_?”

He says ‘people’ the same way you would talk about leeches clinging to your leg. You fold your arms around you. “Karkat was abducted during the summer. He was rescued but he was in a… _delicate_ condition. Vulnerable. The Trussians protected him but you know how they are about my father. They wanted to make Karkat into their champion, and kept him blind to their maliciousness. The Trussians promised him revenge and he was sure he wanted it. Well, he got revenge but it didn’t make him feel any better. Now he’s trapped and he’s…afraid to talk. The Cherubs were foreigners and they did _this_ ”--you gesture to the neighborhood--“and we stopped them. Imagine what the Trussians would do. And their _leader_ ”—you clench your fangs—“he is the _worst_.”

“Meliak.” Petros considers again but his eyes are narrowed. His expression is that of serenity before a storm. You doubt a tsunami would jostle him.

Your suspicion flares. “You know his name?”

“I have to go.” Petros stands and walks by you. He takes his iHusk out and starts dialing.

“Go where?” you ask.

“No where…” Petros says, distantly. He climbs onto his motorbike and speeds off, kicking up mud.

You don’t linger on the porch. You run back to your trailer and get in your car. You’re not going to stand on the sidelines. Even if Karkat hates you, you’re going to be proactive in helping him. You race after Petros, maintaining your distance.


	2. return to the site

**== > Be Petros, Time to Pull Out the Old Persona **

 

You speed off not toward the city but to the outskirts of the swamp, parking your bike at the end-of-the-line diner. It had been a busy place when the swamps had more trolls; before they were ‘removed’ to the city for their “health”. You knew the real reason: the land they lived on was a treasure trove of metal resources. The city had tried investing in developing the land but, to say the least, they had hit something _else_ and released a nuclear chemical into this part of the swamp which had affected the lusus here to become more...primordial.

The diner sat on the edge of the fenced off area, although the fence was in poor condition and overgrown. There were tracks from trucks going in and out, from poachers and gangs dumping unwanted junk and bodies. The swamp’s name to you was the Black Judge Swamp. To New Jackers, it was known as the Wild Cesspool. To neighborhood locals it was the Toxic Lime Swamp.

You move down, past the diner, stepping over some mangled fencing with ease and then crouching down just at the edge of the brackish mud. Your eyes dilate in the low light as you look around, letting your senses spread. This was wild territory. No one lived here because no one could survive here but the strongest. You can see the glow over the swamp from the bogs, still festering with the toxic chemical and you could sense the lusus here moving more as the darkness increased. You inhale before stepping deeper into the swamp.

You know this region like the back of your hand, even with all the changes and the sinking, rusted mining equipment scattered about. You keep walking, sure footed and missing the pits that could drag a troll your size down into the black muck. You make your way further in, finally coming to a large tree with its roots tangled around a hunk of an Old Alternian spaceship. It was so faded, rusted and overgrown with moss and vines that only a sharp eye would catch it. You step up to it and feel along the bottom before locating the groove of the pod door. You yank it open with a grunt.

Although the outside was corroded and worn, the inside is still intact with some damage. You never liked keeping your things where people could easily find them; especially your old weapon.

 

 

You pull the lance from its hiding place and run your hand over the tip lovingly. Its still sharp and well kept after all this time, bringing back a nostalgic pang.

You recall all the wars you fought with this lance as the cavalreaper commander... but those were long ago days.

Bloody days.

You thought you’d never have to take up your lance again after your stint around the world, drifting from place to place. You didn't think, in _New Jack_ of all places, you would have to take up your old persona.

You get back to your feet, hefting the lance over your shoulder and slamming the ship shut. You walk out of the swamp and return to the diner parking lot. You notice there’s another car here and the scent’s familiar, but you shrug it off.

You turn your head down the road, a slow smile gracing your lips. A tremor of excitement runs through your body, knowing that for once, you can act on your more base desires. You were a wild troll. You grew up in the wastelands and had participated in the rites that came with such a lifestyle. You were a warrior of Alternia who lead a revolution and who made even highbloods balk in fear.

You were the Summoner...and it’s time to assert your dominance and reputation over those that displease you.

You turn from the diner and walk down the southern road. There are no lights, only the glow of the swamp on your right as you walked; lance easily slung over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing. You’ve provoked the animal. Trussians never back down from blunt threats and messing with their affairs…especially when he had more or less told their leader in New Jack that Karkat was under his protection and if they tried to pull him out _he_ would break their heads.

Fanatics are still fanatics and when you threaten their idol, they would come for you, so you told them exactly where to meet.

The Trussian body dump in the swamps is about a two mile walk from the diner, a turn to the right, and then two more miles on a muddy path, wedged at the edge of the swamp between two moldering cranes. It hasn't changed since the Signless was still in these parts. The stench of death is heavy here. The lusii in the water talked about what they’d eaten recently: trolls that didn't comply with rules, pregnant sex workers who were a liability, trafficked-in trolls that were too stubborn to sell well...this place was sullied by the bones that would never be found to be laid to rest or appeased.

Perhaps that could be taken care of tonight.

You move to the edge and sit on the crane. You slam your lance between your legs, resting your hands on the handle, and your chin on your hands as you wait for the Trussians. You give a wide and lazy grin. This is going to be the sort of business you like doing.


	3. the wild cesspool

**== >The Summoner: Be Kankri again**

 

Following Petros by car is difficult. A motorbike is more versatile than your hunk of junk. You’re concerned about the noise so you hang back, tailing the motorbike as it weaves through the park. You expect him to go downtown but he heads toward the woodsy barrier between your neighborhood and Aniline End. He veers off a turn down a narrow and neglected road that’s more dirt than cement. It’s a tight squeeze but leads into a wider road. There’s a vast dirt lot, veering off into another road leading into the swamp. On the west side of the dirt lot are a mangled and rusting fence. There are large signs with the yellow hazard symbol on it, warning about the giant lusii and toxic swamp water. Behind the fence is a faint neon glow.

 _The Wild Cesspool,_ you realize. You haven’t thought about this place in years. You remember Meenah daring the others to go in but everyone chickened out when a giant lusus crawled out of the swamp. On the eastern side of the lot is a diner with a faded sign. Petros’s motorbike is in the diner’s parking lot but you don’t see him. There’s rustling in the fenced off area and you catch sight of a winged troll moving into the bushes.

What could Petros want in _there_? You want to follow but you don’t have psionics to help you. No, you need to wait and see.

You park the car and head into the diner. It smells like stale coffee and burnt sugar; it’s not dirty but it’s not clean either. The lights taint everything sodium yellow and there’s an aging, surly waitress at the bar. You’d ask her about this area but she doesn’t look like the socializing type. The sign on the door says the diner’s 24 hours so they must get questionable types to keep it thriving: addicts, pushers, and prostitutes who need a hot average meal to keep going in the twilight hours.

You sit in a booth, that gives you the best angle of the swamp and order strong coffee. The coffee comes ten minutes late and is old, but it’ll suffice. The waitress returns to ignoring you, rigorously polishing the counter. Forty minutes go by and customers arrive: a junkie clown with long tract marks on his arm and a prostitute pal. The waitress serves them hash and eggs and makes polite conversation about ‘business’.

You keep waiting and eight o’ clock rolls around. Terezi hasn’t called so her pale time with Karkat must still be going. Karkat’s been acting odd according to Dave and you already know why. He’s an idiot for getting involved with the Trussians, but you were never very bright when it came to Capone either.

Just as you’re ready to call it a night, Petros comes out of the swamp carrying a sizeable lance. Your stomach does a nervous flip. Petros looks at the diner but doesn’t approach it. He strolls down the southern road.

You slap down money on the table and rush out the diner. Petros has already disappeared down the road and you follow him, pushing aside trees blocking your way. The road is mostly dirt and long abandoned. You stay concealed in the trees as Petros strolls down the road. You step into mud (or what you hope is _only_ mud) but you move stealthily. Luckily the mating calls of wild lusii growling are covering the sound of your movement. Its a long trek and you’re starting to regret it judging by the ache in your hamstrings. You must have walked four miles and moving through the mud is even harder.

Eventually Petros walks into dry area with more fencing and rusting digging equipment. The drainage and excavation equipment are still present and the machinery overgrown with kudzu.

What were they looking for in this muck?

Petros sits on the edge of an abandoned crane, lance still in hand, and waiting. You squat in the bushes and wait, ignoring the muddy water seeping into your sneakers and the stench of the chemicals in the mud. You try not to fidget in the bushes, ignoring the mosquitoes and gnats. You turn off your iHusk’s sound but keep it on. If anything incriminating happens, you’ll want evidence. Minutes pass and you must have nodded off at some point because you’re awakened by the roar of engines and footsteps. Trussian fills the air as feet move past you. You keep very still as you peer between the leaves.

Trussians walk into the area and at the head are Meliak and Sergei. Surrounding them are five muscular trolls—two brownbloods, two mutantbloods, and one yellowblood.

This must be who’s meeting Petros. You knew he was no good. Now you have the proof. You move slowly so you can get a better angle.

Meliak approaches Petros, who doesn’t move from the crane. You have to strain your ears to make out their words.

“So it’s true,” Meliak says, “an old school troll has appeared in New Jack City. I thought all of you were dead… _especially_ you.” Meliak is smiling but its a grin of someone waiting to kill; an animal bearing its fangs in false formality. Sergei stares at Petros, challenging him to make the first move.

“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Petros replies, “Is this how the Trussians greet newcomers?”

“You didn’t come here to be greeted,” says Meliak, “You came here to pick a fight.”

“And you didn’t?”

Meliak’s smile stretches but he’s barely tolerating his sass. “If you expect us to want your aged wisdom, we’re politely declining. Our numbers are full and we don’t need advice from a relic of a bygone era.”

“A relic?” Petros muses, “You wouldn’t know what to _do_ with a relic, Meliak. You’d sell it in a heartbeat, or thrust it on some immigrant prostitute you picked up.”

“Very funny, old man,” Meliak says, still smiling. He speaks to his thugs in Trussian, _“I want his wings intact. I plan to mount them on my wall.”_

You hold your breath, hoping this is just a show of bravado and a twisted sense of humor at work.

Petros chuckles, closing his eyes. He isn't moving away and doesn't seem threatened by the approaching Trussians, easily hefting his lance to his shoulder, “Big words coming from a dead man. You see, this wasn't me calling you out for any old reason...” His eyes narrow and your blood goes cold when he speaks again, “This is an imperial death sentence for threatening the bloodline of His Holiness, the Signless, his Grand Threshecutionerness, and the Emperor Consort to our Empress. You have crossed a line.” Petros's tone is casual, a smile still on his face despite the coldly burning rage in his eyes.

The thugs charge him. The yellowblood's psionics crackle as he shouts, and then he’s screaming at the hole in his torso. You jump, eyes widening. Petros just smiles, starting to bare his teeth a bit in a pleased glee.

He had thrown the lance. He had thrown the lance with enough force to have it cleanly go through the now dead yellowblood.

For a second, the other thugs hesitate before rushing him, swinging and aiming to hit the large troll. Petros keeps his wings tucked close, weaving and dodging hits gracefully despite his size. Sergei is quietly coming up behind him, a gun raised. Your voice catches in your throat but then Sergei screams as he is yanked down, both legs in the maw of the largest crocodile lusus you have ever seen. Its wild, purple eyes are dilated as it snarls, biting down harder and causing Sergei to scream.

As Sergei screams, the Summoner casually angles his horns to cleanly impale one of the other brownbloods. With a toss of his head, Petros flings the body across the clearing, where it lands at Meliak’s feet with a wet splatter. You have never seen the Trussian mob boss so afraid. He turns then, looking to run back to his car but stops at a loud snarl. A huge wild lusus stomps out of the woods, blocking his escape. They don't attack, only snap at him to keep him cornered. Meliak draws his gun, turning to Petros. The brownblood is finishing off the last mutant with a sickening crunch from their spine, putting his full weight on it.

The Summoner’s smile widens with a feral, excited expression. “This has been fun... not really, but I got a bit of a thrill...but I think you might make...better sport...you and him,” He glances to Sergei who is moaning in pain. The gator releases him and watches the mutantblood crawl up a muddy bank to get away.

You watch as the Summoner walks over with an almost childish glee, steps on the mutilated legs hard, causing Sergei to scream and the Summoner to grin even more.

You knew Alternian trolls like to have “sport” but you were certain only the Grand Highblood or Mindfang enjoyed that. Seems you were wrong. _Very_ wrong.

The Summoner lifts his foot and lets Sergei try to crawl away again before following him; this time stepping on his wrist to break it. He chuckles at his shriek and looks at Meliak. The older Trussian looks like he would piss himself in fear.

“Don't worry...you'll get your turn.” he says in a near sing-song voice, “Tonight is special. The black moon is here, no light to parse the veils of shadows, the hungry dead of the land far below ruled by the master of death rises closer to the surface and sacrifices made will bring great boons to the faithful.”

You’re shuddering. His words have a strange, religious overtone and not any religion you’re familiar with either. Something darker. Older. Something inside you screams for you to run; that you shouldn’t witness the evil Petros is committing.

You want to move but you’re frozen. You don’t want to see this…most _triggering_ thing. You also have another fear: what if Petros hears you scream or run? No, you remain and watch Petros break Sergei’s other wrist.

You need to see how deep the bronzeblood’s darkness goes. All you can do is hope you don’t scream.

Meliak opens fire on the Summoner, who is on the move again. He slams into the mutantblood, grabbing his throat, and hefting him up easily. His eyes are narrowed but his grin is widening.

“Hide behind your guns, eh? Can't fight like a _real_ troll?” He grabs the wrist of the hand holding the gun and broke it. Meliak screams and the Summoner casually tosses him over to where Sergei lies trembling. “Fear is important. Fear pulls the hungry dead closer...and there are so many dead here. How many bodies have you dumped in this swamp? Enough to make the lusus grow fat, of _that_ I can assure you.”

The Summoner retrieves his lance and shoves the tip into the ground. He goes about gathering the bodies of the dead, pulling them into a circle, their feet pointed to the center while their heads pointed out. Meliak has gotten to his feet and tries to flee, only for the Summoner to quickly intercept him.

“Tsk tsk. Can't take your punishment like a man?” he sighs. He easily knocks Meliak over and brings his foot down hard on the mutantblood’s knee. A sickening crunch echoes through the swamp as the Summoner forces the bones out of the sockets. You cover your ears to drown out the shrill screams as the thick trees and bushes trap the noises in the Wild Cesspool must be.

The Summoner moves to a crane, ripping a rusting pylon leg off, and dragged it over. He buries the point in the ground where the dead men’s feet met. He turns to Sergei and Meliak with a smile. “Thank you for being so patient...” he says with a low purr.

The brownblood easily drags Meliak and Sergei over, tying them to the post and testing their bindings before stepping back. The Summoner reaches inside his backpack and slides out a dagger of a design you’ve never seen and a black cup. He carefully takes blood from each corpse, murmuring a strange prayer, carving a symbol on each of their foreheads, and then goes to Meliak and Sergei. They’re both wounded but alive. The Summoner holds the cup aloft and chants the prayer louder, trailing the blood from the display to the deeper parts of the muddy water.

The Summoner turns to the living mutantbloods and smiles. “Your blood will feed those you've killed this evening.” he promises. He reaches into his pack and takes out a bottle, splashing the overpowering contents onto the two mutantbloods and then the bodies. Meliak sputters and Sergei says something in Trussian about his eyes stinging. The Summoner steps back and strikes a match. Meliak’s eyes widen as the match falls on him and immediately ignites. As the swamp lights up, you see fallen branches and twigs have been strategically placed throughout the mud. Its not just a woodsy swamp, but a hidden pyre.

Your eyes widen as you watch the two burn alive, screaming and bleeding as skin sizzled and popped. The smell of burning flesh makes your stomach heave. The Summoner continues chanting as the shadows flicker. There’s something dark and horrid in the swamp now. You swear you hear whispers in the swamp and see the waters stir. Your mind conjures rotten faces rising up, dragging corpses from the swamp. You can see the shadows crouching near the burning bodies, long tongues slithering out to lap up the oil and fat dripping from the cooking bodies.

You don't move. You watch until the bodies are nothing but smoldering husks. The fire is low and Petros calmly stands, no longer chanting. He carefully puts out what remains of the fire and throws the charred remains into the swamp. You swear you see shadowy hands pull the offerings into the water.

The Summoner picks up his lance and turns toward you. Your body goes cold and you can't breathe. He knows you’re there. He's going to kill you. He's going to...

The brownblood turns and walks off. The lusus have abandoned the area as well. Everything is silent but you still don't move. You sit in the darkness, not moving. You don’t know what time it is or how long you’ve been squatting in the bushes and mud. You reach for your phone but it’s gone. Did you drop it? Maybe, when you were too occupied watching the grisly scene.

You breathe in the offensive odors: charcoal, sizzling fat, toxic mud, and garbage. Neither the pyre nor the bodies remain. The wind moves through the narrow trees in rattling whispers.

 _They’re gone,_ it says, _they’re gone…_

Isn’t this what you wanted? You hated Sergei and Meliak, wanted them to suffer, and now they definitely have. The air still stinks of their blood.

Your heart is beating but not with fear. _This had to be done,_ you tell yourself, _There was no other way_ but you’re still afraid. You can’t ignore the enticing, sanguine smell. Horrific…yet desirable.

 _No!_ You slap yourself, as if that will banish the thought. You can’t become your father. You just crawled out of a dark hole. You won’t go down another.

You run from the swamp, leaving its temptations.


	4. last moments in new jack

 

**== >Be Petros in January**

“We should lock you away,” Investigator Quan says.

The rage radiating from Quan would send a lusus into a blind fury. It’s a miracle that Canzian humans haven’t gone the way of their Leder cousins. They’re absurdly insecure about their status in the world, being smaller and weaker. If the cops weren’t so skittish about your size, they’d beat and tazer you to show you ‘your place’. They could try. You’ve experienced far worse from the Empress’s handpicked ruffiannihilators.

The only exception is Strider and his husband, as they’ve exchanged intimidation for curiosity. You don’t mind curiosity. You prefer questions than being harassed by nervous cops.

“By your tone, I assume you won’t.” You say, withholding the laughter trying to bubble in your throat.

Quan’s fists clench and then unfold. He has the posture of a military man, which must be why this situation is such an irritant. You’re a military man whose developed a healthy hate of politics, but not when they’re working _for_ you.

“You’re being deported,” Quan growls, “looks like you made your one phone call count.”

All you did was call your moirail. You waited two days in an isolated cell but knew it would pan out.

“Now, I am legally obligated to tell you that you can seek asylum in the UTC if you don’t wish to return home,” Quan says between clenched teeth, “Though honestly? I wouldn’t suggest it.”

“Why does it matter that I killed Sergei and Meliak Vantas?” you say, “The Trussians are destabilized, eating themselves like a rabid snake. I’ve done your city a service.”

“This is about justice! Not _revenge_!” Quan snaps, “You should be tried like everyone else.”

“You would have shot them anyways. Sergei and Meliak were too cowardly to do prison.” you snort, “Are you going to publicize my identity on the news?”

Quan stands. “Get used to that cell, Nitram. It’s going to be your home until the red tape clears.”

Officers escort you to your cell, glowering menace. They shove you back into the isolation cell, sneering a challenge to give them trouble. When you don’t take them up on their threat, they walk off in disgust but also relief. You spent months in isolation on a spaceship, which was far worse. An airtight ship lacking a true sense of up and down was far more unnerving than any earthbound prison.

The true downside is not having visitors. You would have liked to say goodbye to Rufioh or at least explain, but its too late and you have no time for regrets.

They give you a single meal per day: meatloaf, gravy, potatoes, mixed vegetables, three slices of pumpernickel, a fresh orange, and Hi-C fruit punch. You crumble the meatloaf and find today’s special surprise are two rusty razorblades. Whoever keeps tainting your food must have been on Trussian payroll. You give them a D-, for the pathetic attempts at imitation.

You eat what little you have and meditate, pondering old memories.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting in the cell before. A gruff guard tosses you fresh clothes and tells you it’s time to go. When you leave the station, it’s not local cops escorting you but FPI agents in well-pressed uniform. They don’t tell you where you’re going and you don’t speak. You can smell the anxiousness on the agents. They’re not used to a prisoner being so quiet, not even requesting water or meaningless conversation.

They drive far from the city, to a secluded hotel. You already passed a sign saying you were at the halfway point between New Jack and Midway. The hotel is indistinct: not too fancy to draw notice and not too crummy to stand out in memory. The police car drives into the cracked parking lot where several vans and black coats are waiting. The black coats are patrolling the area, keeping it secure.

The car parks and the feds let you out. You’re walked to the front door and your moirail steps out, escorted by her bodyguards. One of the guards steps forward, handing over a suitcase to one of the agents. They take it, your cuffs are unlocked, and you’re shoved forward.

The suitcase doesn’t seem heavy or bulging so it must be filled with lightweight currency—stacks of high-end bills or bearer bonds. A gift to help cut through the red tape.

The agents leave, content with the payoff, and you enter the hotel with your moirail. You smile down at her. “Haven’t seen you in a while, stranger.”

She gives your arm a friendly squeeze. “I missed yo’ dumb bass, Petros.”

You grin. “Same, Condie.”


End file.
